


I Believe in John Watson

by havetardiswilltimetravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach, believeinSherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:56:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetardiswilltimetravel/pseuds/havetardiswilltimetravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson visits Sherlock's grave every week without fail. When he visits on the two month anniversary of Sherlock's death, he finds something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe in John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/18147310551/)

A stocky figure walked through the graveyard, the midday sun shining light on the headstones he passed without a glance. The day was beautiful - calm, peaceful, serene. It was nothing like the frenzied, exciting, maddening days John Watson had shared with Sherlock Holmes before the fall...but it was quite the same as the day he had stood, hands stiff by his sides, and watched as the consulting detective was buried in the ground.

John looked straight ahead as he strode on, shoulders square, his steady pace marred only by a slight limp. The army doctor’s face was set as if he was still at war. It was the only way he could soldier on. The facade never cracked unless his therapist managed to work the emotion out of him or he was alone. Two months had passed since Sherlock had been lowered into the ground, and John had visited every week. Some days he would just stand and stare at the bold letters engraving the polished stone. Some days he would talk about what was going on in the world, in his world, as if the man could actually hear him. But every week, without fail, he would come.

The polished black headstone came into view, and John’s pace slowed of its own accord before quickening again, brow furrowing as he drew closer, his eyes sweeping the scene. Flowers littered the ground and crowded around the tombstone, almost but not quite obscuring the name it bore. Flyers and folded up notes were tucked here and there, all different, but all with the same bold message: “Moriarty was Real.” “Richard Brook was a fraud.” “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

John swallowed the lump that had worked its way into his throat and took a slow breath to steady himself as he wrapped his mind around the outpour of support before him. It was staggering. He wasn’t the only one who believed in Sherlock. No matter what the newspapers said and no matter how alone he felt without the consulting detective, he wasn't alone in his belief, in his knowledge that nothing Sherlock had done had been a lie. Shaking his head slightly in disbelief, a small smile formed on his face, sad but oddly comforted.

John stepped forward and placed his hand on the gravestone, watching as his fingers rubbed along the top of the marker. After a moment of silence, his eyes caught on a snatch of blue, stark against the green grass on the opposite side. Stepping around, he bent, fingers closing almost hesitantly around a small bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots, curiosity piqued further when he spotted a small folded piece of paper tucked under the petals. He stared for a few moments, mind whirring, before plucking the note from its resting place and slowly unfolding it. One line stood out against the stark white paper. 

“I believe in John Watson.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that scrawl – precise but hurried. Elegant but sharp. After a moment, he realized that he had stopped breathing, and with an audible intake of breath, he allowed air to fill his lungs once more, still staring at the note, unsure that he could truly trust his eyes. A moment passed in silence before his head snapped up, eyes searching, hoping, and Sherlock ducked behind the tree he’d been peering around.

Leaning against the thick trunk that served as his hiding place, Sherlock looked up at the canopy above him and took a deep breath, knowing it had been risky to come...but he hadn't a choice in the matter. Not really. He hadn’t been able to help himself. For two months, week in and week out, Sherlock had come to his own grave and watched from the shadows as John murmured to his headstone. He had watched every week as John let his stoic exterior crack, seeing just how much he had hurt the man, his best friend. 

He couldn’t put off leaving any longer. He had to unravel Moriarty's web. He had to fix this. But he couldn’t leave John without hope. He couldn’t stand for John to keep hurting for as long as it would take him to track down Moriarty's men and end this. He didn’t know how long that would be, but he needed John to keep believing in him. It seemed like a selfless act, but it was anything but...the plan had been for no one but Molly to know, but Sherlock couldn’t leave it at that...John had to keep strong when he wasn’t there so that Sherlock in turn could stay strong without his blogger by his side.

The sound of receding footsteps interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts, and the detective peered around the tree once more to watch his friend walk away, note and flowers clutched tightly in his right hand. A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. John’s limp had disappeared.

“I’ll be back, John,” he thought at the retreating figure, determined to keep that promise. “Just don’t stop believing. I’ll be back.”


End file.
